


You Could At Least Recognize Me

by Bohemienne



Series: MCU Prompts, Ficlets, and Drabbles [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, prompt, sad bucky noises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet for prompt: What Natasha means when she says "You could at least recognize me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Could At Least Recognize Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aionimica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aionimica/gifts).



Muscle memory. He knows her weight in his arms; the way her legs curve, the way his body wraps around hers.

His fingertips remember the long line of her throat and the hollow at the base. His lips remember the warm honey taste of her skin. The way her breath against his ear seared away the last of the ice clouding his thoughts–

_Recognize. **Recognize.**_

He remembers them all lined up. Toes at perfect angles, backs straight, shoulders soft. ~~benign~~ A faint scent of chalk and sweat hangs in the air; for all they look like dolls on a mantle, he sees the lean muscle under their sweats, the taut hunger in their sneers.

He knows a threat when he sees one.

The madam raps her wooden stick against the gymnastics mat. “If you wish to eat dinner tonight,” she says, “you must first last one minute against the _soldat’_.”

He shifts his weight. _Subdue_ was his sole instruction. It doesn’t feel right, to be lying in wait. He scans the exits out of habit. ~~furnace~~ Makes a note of when the madam’s attention wanders.

She nods to the first girl and clicks her stopwatch. “Cherkashvili. Begin.”

_r e c o g n i z e_

Three unconscious. One nursing a bloody nose in the corner. Another crying over her broken leg. _Subdue._ They come at him with fists and heels and don’t think about the disproportionate weight of his arm. The madam sees their ignorance, but says nothing. Raps her stick again.

“Romanova. Begin.”

 ~~daybreak~~ She steps onto the mat and meets his gaze. He sees blue–the kind of crisp blue he’s never seen before. Not in his chamber. Not in the dead of night, crouched on a roof. Not since–

~~Rockaway Beach~~

~~Coney Island~~

It doesn’t matter. _Subdue._

He swings with his right fist first. And she drops–but before the hit connects.

Slides down the mat, between his legs.

He turns.

Then she strikes.

Legs–twist–reach up–but his arm’s pinned to his side. Can’t quite–breathe–pulse–dropping–black.

When he blinks again, she's standing over him, wearing the kind of smirk he thought their training was supposed to erase. He wants to press his thumb against it, smooth it out. ~~homecoming~~

“Thanks for dinner,” she says.


End file.
